


All That's Left

by hobert



Series: Halloween Series [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobert/pseuds/hobert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past returns to haunt Duncan MacLeod on Samhain (Oct.31), where revenge puts Richie in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That's Left

**Author's Note:**

> Samhain. Hallow's Eve. Legend has it that on this night where witches dance and spirits walk the earth, the devil appears, wearing a kilt and playing a ghostly tune on his bagpipes. To some, it isn't the devil, or witches. To those, the ghosts of the past return to haunt them this night, wailing at whatever keeps the spirits chained to this realm. For one Immortal, the pipes call to what was lost, never to be regained.
> 
> For Claire...

Duncan MacLeod eyed the plastic-wrapped package of meat, exhibiting skills that showed he was using an eye that had raised beef, butchered it, and eaten it in many shapes and forms. After four centuries of practice, all it took was a glance, and all the imperfections, the packer's tricks were laid bare. You might think such a useful talent would be helpful. Instead, it took what little fun shopping was and destroyed it. Nothing passed inspection. Nothing in the last forty years.

With a sigh of exasperation, he tossed the meat back on the pile, closing his eyes. With a grim smile, he reached in, picking one at random. Not even looking at it, he tossed it in the basket, quickly looking around to see if anyone was watching. Not a soul. Disappointing.

When he and Tessa would go shopping together, now that was excitement. He'd settle for pushing the basket, letting the French woman take all his attention. Watching her move, examine the shelves, pick something unimportant for his approval. He'd always smile, approving the selector, not selection. She'd grin back, her lips promising something more exotic than Cool Whip. After supper, with Richie safely tucked away. But not anymore.

It took a trip to the supermarket with Richie, after Tessa's... _Death. Say it, MacLeod. She's dead._...after her death, to realize what he'd been missing. Storming the aisles with Mr. Hormone had revealed the little game played unnoticed all around him. The young Immortal had the art of shopping as mating ritual down to a science. Chasing short skirts through the dairy coolers, accidentally bumping single women's carts. And the more Duncan watched, the more he encountered the looks he received from other shoppers. The shy one smiling over the pile of watermelon, the bold one brushing his basket with her hips. He had never thought that Little Debbie could be so...enticing.

Later that night, after Richie had left, Duncan toyed with what he learned at the grocery store. It was a fact Tessa was gone, never more to share his life. He was alone. It was also a fact he loved the attention, the flirting. The hunger of a woman who wanted him. Oh, that it could still be her. But he knew it had to be someone, soon, before he went mad from the ache in his chest. The ache to be loved and wanted.

It was that ache that drove him to this place, so unimportant before. It was the pain that made him spend so much time getting ready, from what to wear, to being clean and alluring. Tantalizing. It only took two trips for Richie to decide not to accompany Duncan to the store anymore. For Duncan was now an avid player in this little game.

This was why he was here, this Saturday afternoon. Amanda had left him... _Hungry._ His usual weekend dinner invitation to Richie had been readily accepted. Duncan was in the mood for something fancy this week. To celebrate, and reward his friend for his help with Amanda's problem. _Stroganoff,_ Duncan thought, remembering how much the youngster loved it when Tessa had made it. _And French bread. I've got a '42 and... cheesecake._ He reached out and grabbed the frozen box of ready-to-eat dessert, tossing it on top of the pile in the cart. The memory of the heavenly taste drove all thoughts of the woman with the spotted dress in aisle seven out of his brain. Executing a sharp one-eighty turn, missing the end display by inches, and off to the checkout lane he sped.

He was trapped in lane two, idly thumbing through a tabloid, when a horn outside drew his attention. Looking up, leaning around the young girl in front of him, he focused on a gold corvette speeding past the supermarket windows, the flash of the driver's face...

 

> _...appearing behind one of the rocks. "Come on, Duncan," the boy of twelve cried, turning and climbing higher in the ruins. Duncan huffed, grabbing hold with his almost man-sized hands, following. His heart beat at the nervousness he felt, climbing the haunted tower. Crumbling to dust it was, lone and foreboding in the grassy valley. They came here often, wanting to get away from the village. They came and fought, talked, sometimes explored the other ruins around the rocks. But never ventured so close._
> 
> _Duncan stopped as the other boy reached the pinnacle, then with a surge of effort, swiftly finished the climb. Panting, he looked around, admiring the view. "Finley spoke the truth, you can see forever up here," the boy exclaimed, turning to face Duncan, grinning._
> 
> _"Aye, Ian. But wha' if we ge' caught?" Duncan asked, grinning back. "We're no' supposed to be here." That fact Angus, Duncan's father, had made painfully clear. The pair couldn't sit for days after the `lesson'. The older absently felt his rear, trying to decide if it was worth it. The younger could care less._
> 
> _The two were twins, the villagers swore, if not in body then certainly in spirit. Same dark hair, same mischievous grins, matching builds and matching temperament. Always together. They shared everything, including trouble. Duncan was the elder by two years, striving hard to grow into his father's expectations. Ian had no impetus, other than matching Duncan. Together, they were the best at everything._
> 
> _It had been a long time since the lanky youth had wandered into the village during a summer squall. No one knew where he had come from, only that he was hungry and frightened. Old Mary, the washer woman, had taken him in, and for the task of looking out for him, Angus assigned Duncan. Perturbed, the Scottish youth let the pest follow him around. They had never truly been apart since._
> 
> _Ian spun around on the precarious ledge, laughing, his arms spread wide. Duncan quickly followed suit. They were princes of all they surveyed. Until startled from the voice below._
> 
> _"Ian. Duncan. Is tha' you, laddies?"_

"Sir," the cashier spoke again. Duncan blinked, finally focused on the old woman behind the register. "That comes to thirty-seven dollars and twelve cents," she continued, holding her wrinkled hand out as Duncan fished his wallet out of his back pocket. He still seemed distracted as he walked out into the parking lot, bag in hand, taking a minute to scan the cars, looking for the corvette. Feeling foolish, he adjusted his shades before walking to his car. The ghosts of his past never had been quiet.

* * *

The Highlander walked into the dojo, pleased with the bustle. Not only because the money it brought, but for Charlie's attitude. There was still a little jealousy on that front, the black man hurting at having to sell. But it was hard for anyone to stay mad at Duncan for long, especially when business was so good.

He stood in the nook of the stairs, a clear view of Charlie and Richie working out near the office door. The new Immortal was terrorizing the punching bag, never letting up. Even from behind, Duncan could feel the concentration the young man possessed, the buzz heralding his proximity ignored as the redhead jabbed and weaved. Charlie noticed his boss, however, and started putting Richie through his paces, pressing the redhead harder. Like a fine race horse, Richie rose to the challenge, performing for his mentor. Duncan had to smile as he walked over, still clutching the grocery bag.

"I see you're working up an appetite. I hope I bought enough food," he commented, interrupting Richie's workout. The redhead turned and grinned, breathing hard. Sweat poured off his forehead, running down his face until he wiped it off on his arm.

"You know me, Mac. I'll still be hungry," Richard Ryan replied. The phone rang, sending Charlie into the office, leaving the two alone. "I hope Amanda got off all right," the redhead huffed.

"Took her to the airport yesterday." Duncan looked around for a place to set the grocery bag, but nothing was handy. Resigned, he started for the freight elevator, turning back after a few steps. "Hour and a half?" he asked.

Richie grinned, already salivating. "Sure. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just yourself," Duncan said, lifting the gate with his free hand. "And maybe some deodorant."

* * *

The pasta was ready to boil, the meat and sauce simmering. He was surprised how excited he was that Richie was coming up. Since Duncan had bought the building, they had eaten together at least once a week. It was strange living alone again, for the first time in thirteen years. Not having someone to come home to, having to make an effort to spend time with Richie, not seeing the redhead for days. _But that's how it needs to be. Someday, he won't come back. Like..._

 

> _"Ian!" the old crone admonished, "How many times have I told ye no' to come up here. And you, Duncan MacLeod, should know better!" The boys just stood, looking foolish at the ground, the tower ruins rising oppressively behind them. Old Mary sighed, picking up the wet clothing she had set down, handing it to Ian. "Run these to the village, lad. And be hangin' them up, now. You can help him, Master Duncan."_
> 
> _"Bu' . . . " Duncan began, only to quiet at Mary's glare_.
> 
> _"You be helpin' your friend, and I'll see Angus hears no' of this," Mary said, leveling the angry gaze with the hint of a smile. "Or I could pu' a hex on ye . . . " A shooing motion of her hands, and the two boys were off, running as fast as they could to the village. "And I better no' catch ye around here again, me laddies!" she yelled after them, following at her hobbling pace._
> 
> _The two reached Mary's hut, out of breath. Without speaking, they began hanging the wet clothes on the lines, too fearful for conversation. When they had finished, Mary was just appearing up the meadow. Duncan gulped, rushing to Ian. "Tomorrow?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he took flight, glad he wasn't the one living with the old woman._
> 
> _The young Highlander ran across the way, barreling through his own door as his mother called him. "Duncan . . . Duncan Mac . . . "_

  
"...Mac?" Richie asked again. Duncan looked up sharply, startled. The sudden movement shifted his center of gravity, his hand reaching to check his fall. It landed against the pot of boiling water, the sudden pain as he burned his hand making him jerk it away. He stuck it in his mouth automatically, sucking on the wound as the flesh began to blister and bubble. Richie looked on in concern, the whole episode lasting less than a second.

"Dmmnm" mumbled Duncan as he turned away, circling until he settled on the refrigerator. He started across the kitchen toward it as Richie came around the sink island, a sympathetic comment already started. Opening the door, reaching for the ice, Duncan got a good look at the hand. A nasty burn. He vainly searched for an excuse as he grabbed some ice. "I seem to be distracted lately...."

Richie turned to the food, taking over the chores of cooking. "Why the ice? Your hand should heal in a couple of seconds." Without flourish, the redhead dumped the pasta in the water, reaching for a wooden spoon to stir.

Duncan weakly smiled. "Because it still hurts... as you keep pointing out." Taking a moment to examine his student, he was surprised at how he had dressed. Nice shirt, new jeans. Ironed, even. Almost a copy of Duncan himself. "Got a date tonight?" he asked, taking a glimpse at his healing hand.

Richie smiled. "Why, yes," he replied. "With a very old friend." He briefly glanced up, looking at Duncan before returning to his stirring. ***DING*** The bell of the timer was startling in the quiet atmosphere.

"Anyone I know?" Duncan gingerly drew out silverware as Richie drained the pasta into the sink.

"Mac..." Richie implored, dishing the noodles onto the two plates. "You're the oldest friend I have. Besides, it was time I upgraded my wardrobe." He ran his hand down the front of his shirt, straightening the few wrinkles.

It took a moment for the realization that Richie dressed up for tonight to sink into Duncan's brain. It also set off a very small alarm bell. Duncan just stared as Richie poured the meat and sauce over the pasta. "Well..." the Highlander finally said. "It does suit you. Living on your own seems to be doing some good." He pointed to the oven, Richie walking over and pulling out the French bread. With little gasps, the youngster juggled the piping hot bread to the plates, a sigh of relief escaping once he was through. A quick washing of hands in the sink, and the cooking was done.

Richie grabbed the plates as Duncan grabbed the wine and glasses. "Yeah, just remember that fact when you get the bill," the redhead said as they moved to the sitting area. He opted for the sofa while Duncan sat Japanese style on the floor next to the square coffee table.

Richie spent a lot of time staring at his food, playing with it, giving Duncan an opportunity to examine his friend. There was very little conversation, a fact setting off another bell. _He wants to ask me something,_ Duncan thought. _I hope it's nothing drastic. Like wanting to leave. Things really haven't been too swift between us lately. It's kind of funny, the way he gets when he's nervous. Reminds me of Ian...._

> _The younger paced on the other side of the fire, nervous. Duncan finally had enough, standing and planting his spear in the ground. "What's the matter, Ian. Why won' you speak to me?" The other stopped, staring over the flames. They were still two halves of one young spirit, though manhood had come long ago. Acclaimed war leader and his second they had become. And a fine pair of hunters._
> 
> _"We are friends, you and I?" Ian asked, concern written all over his face._
> 
> _"Wha' kind o' stupid question is that?" Duncan asked, storming around the fire._
> 
> It's bad enough the hunting is going badly, now he's asking childish questions! _"O' course, we're friends!"_
> 
> _Ian turned away, still nervous. He clenched and unclenched his fists, turning around, a resigned look on his face. "I asked Colleen to be my wife, Duncan." Silence descended over the campfire. "She agreed. It's done."_
> 
> _At first, Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing._ Ian and . . . Colleen? They wouldn't! _Then came denial, followed by anger._ How could they? _He turned, wanting to strike out at Ian but unable. It seemed best to leave for the moment. Duncan MacLeod grabbed his hunting spear, and disappeared into the night._
> 
> _The warrior released his rage to the forest. "Colleen is mine!" he exclaimed to the night, knowing he had done nothing to win her affections. She was always there, just as Ian had always been. It was his future to marry her, not Ian's. "He betrayed me!" he yelled. But the fact remained Ian had won her, fair and true. Because Duncan was a fool was no reason to destroy their friendship and Colleen's happiness. The night was cold, and living alone was even colder. In the end, he would survive, and find another, and his two loves would be happy._
> 
> _It was much later when he returned to the fire, the logs burnt to embers. Ian sat close, the red glow lighting his tormented face. He flinched as Duncan drew near, waiting just outside the light. "How goes the night, kinsman?" he asked, not looking up from the coals._
> 
> _Duncan grimaced, afraid he was already too late. "Cold, my friend. An' very lonely. May I warm myself by the fire?"_
> 
> _Ian stood, gesturing to the clearing. "You are always welcome, brother. Come and be warmed."_
> 
> _Much later, when the fire was almost dead, and the two hunters were covered in furs, Duncan realized Ian was awake as well. The elder moved his head closer to the other. "Forgive me, Ian. I have no right to be angry."_
> 
> _"Sleep, Duncan," Ian said, turning away. "In the morning this will seem a dream, an' we will be ourselves again." Duncan yawned, slowly drifting to sleep. "An' Colleen will still be..."_

_  
"...up at your cabin for a little bit, and you're not listening to a word I'm saying," Richie said, giving a disgusted huff as he stood, taking his empty plate to the sink. Duncan noticed his own was still full, the food cold. Richie's plate clattered in the sink, joined by the crash of silverware. The redhead was still angry when he came back, sitting on the edge of the coffee table across from Duncan. "Is this about an Immortal?" he asked._

Duncan shook his head. "No." He wondered how much he wanted to say to this man who reminded him of Ian. But that part of his life he still kept locked away. "It's about . . . before I became an Immortal . . . " The Highlander's words trailed off into silence.

Richie looked like he could spit. "And you're not gonna tell me anything." The quiet was answer enough. Tired of the games, Richie got up, making his way to the door by the elevator. Stopping in the little hall, he turned back. "What about letting me use your cabin for awhile?"

Duncan took a moment to puzzle together what he had missed. "It's yours," he answered, envisioning a campfire long ago. "Come by in the morning, and I'll have the keys for you." The sound of the door shutting told him Richie had left, the buzz fading away to nothingness. Duncan berated himself as he carried his plate to the kitchen, dejectedly dumping the cold food into the trash. _So much for celebrating._

* * *

It was dark and quiet, but the night was not a peaceful one for Duncan. Tossing and turning in the bed, unable to still the voices the past dredged up. A time long ago, one voice he had thought he had buried. The pipes still called, the ghosts never resting. The sounds...

>   
> _...of preparation for battle all around him. They were expecting him to signal the march any second, but he had to wait. His guilt called for no less. Not knowing quite what to do, he fiddled with his kilt again, readjusting the belts._
> 
> _"An' what are you waitin' for?" Ian asked, appearing suddenly out of the fog. He was also clad in battle gear, answering Duncan's summons. "No' for me. Surely no' for a.... what did you call me?"_
> 
> _Duncan released the breath he was holding, his hopes dashed as he saw his kinsman's eyes. There was no forgiveness, only anger. He cursed his own stupidity the night before. The night he drunkenly revealed to all the fighting men his friend's inability to conceive a child. His boasting that Colleen married the wrong man five years ago._ Not even a man. _He never noticed Ian in the door until it was too late. Even now he had no answer for his friend._
> 
> _Ian drew closer. "Care to gloat agin? Dinna' you do enough last eve? The cattle sit; our families are starving. Do your duty." The fiery Scot whirled, storming toward the war party._
> 
> _"Ian . . . " Duncan called._
> 
> _The other spun. "As war leader, I will fight for you. Die, if need be. But dinna' ever call my name again, clansman. Or, by the gods, I'll remove tha' flapping tongue from your mouth."_
> 
> _"IAN . . . " Duncan called again into the dark. Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed, no answer returning. He was alone. His skin was cold, and wet from his sweat. Tessa's warm body was missing, Richie's faint buzz gone. Even Charlie's voice didn't echo up the elevator shaft. All alone. He felt strange, realizing the last glimpse he had was not of his childhood friend on the field of battle, but the bullet torn body of Richie, lying dead in the street._ I'm doing it all over again.

* * *

Morning light shone through the dojo's windows as Charlie was giving some pointers to Jill. He took a moment to comment as Duncan jogged in, running in place right inside the doors. "Well, man. This is a first. I'd never pick you for a morning person, MacLeod."

"You haven't...known me...for long... " Duncan answered around his puffing. "Richie...come by...?"

Charlie gestured around the room. "Not yet, man." He came closer to the bouncing man. "But that producer lady called again. She's very interested..." Charlie paused until Duncan gave him a wary look and a frown. "About using the place," Charlie finished, holding his hands raised in mock surrender.

Duncan took off slowly for the elevator, not stopping his exercise. "If he shows up...I'll be in the shower..." With a jerk of the strap, the elevator gate dropped, the retreating form of Charlie showing between the bars as the lift rose.

Once in the shower, he stopped pretending. Pretending his life was fine, his head didn't hurt, and hot water was all he needed. He let the tensions drain as the pounding water soothed his muscles. Soaking his hair, he toyed momentarily with the thought of cutting it all off. But that wouldn't help anything.

It was a relief when he finally felt the buzz. _Thank you, God._ He turned off the water, quickly drying himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist as he fumbled for the doorknob. "Richie, I'm sorry about..." He stopped when he saw the empty room. Unconcerned, he grabbed sweat pants, hopping on one leg toward the elevator as he drew them on.

Below, Charlie was still helping Jill, glancing over as the elevator stopped. Duncan met him partway into the dojo, looking around. "Where's Richie?" the Highlander asked, trying to peer around the few bodies working out. Charlie looked bemused at his boss.

"He hasn't shown up," the black man replied, suddenly worried at Duncan's confused frown. "There's a reporter asking about you, though. He's using the phone..." Charlie gestured to the office, both men turning to stare at the empty space. "He was right there, man."

The buzz faded, frightening Duncan as he raced to the office door. Once inside, he rushed to the open windows, hearing Charlie right behind him. No cars, no people. No trench coated figure with a sword. And especially no Richie. The rolodex drew his attention, the cards open to Richie's apartment and phone number. Nervous, he leaned on the edge of the desk, quickly dialing Richie's number. A busy signal. _Great!_ Without an explanation to Charlie, Duncan ran for his katana.

* * *

The Highlander knocked on Richie's door a third time, still not getting a response. With a furtive look to either side, he slipped the pick out of his jacket. The old lock presented little problems for Amanda's tricks. With a click, he was in, quickly glancing around the room. A duffel bag was on the sofa, unzipped, full of clothes. A backpack was on the floor next to it. On the kitchen counter, the phone sat off the hook, a note with a list of food items under the receiver. The bed had been made. _Or not slept in..._ It wasn't until he found the rapier, still hidden in the closet, that he started worrying. _He could have just forgotten it._

Once he was back in the car, he mentally ticked off places Richie would have gone. He tried Angie's place, the park where Mr. Stubbs usually was, even the motorcycle shop. A call to Charlie didn't do much good. No one had seen him at the basketball court where he usually hustled. It was well after lunch before he found the courage to drive by the antique shop, boarded up and empty. A stop at the grocery store produced no results, as did the bar where Greta plied her trade. It was almost dusk by the time he gave up, returning to the dojo.

He was surprised the lights were out, deciding Charlie maybe had an idea. _I knew I should have called this afternoon._ The doors were locked, the dojo empty. Hoping the black man had left a note, he fumbled in the dim light to the office, tripping in surprise on the unconscious Charlie. Reaching from the floor, he switched on the office lights, startled at the bruise on the side of the black man's head. He turned for the desk, finally seeing the large red letters painted on the wall. 'WAREHOUSE'. A closer examination showed the blood used to paint the letters had dried long ago. All that blood. Just like...

> _...a simple livestock raid on a neighboring clan. The MacLeod war party was easily defeating the old caretakers, almost child's play. Duncan's excitement and the thrill of battle drove all the hesitations about Ian from his mind. The lust for living, the taste of blood, overrode all other pleasures.  
>  Duncan didn't worry when two younger men approached from the other clan's village. But another two, then four more arrived, young and fresh to join them. Suddenly the tide was turned, more MacLeods on the ground than standing. The battle party was being whittled away as Duncan watched Ian get his head bashed in across the field. _
> 
> _Trapped by two opponents of his own, he could only scream his vengeance, watching in terror as his friend fell to the ground. Distracted, his opponent drove a sword deep into Duncan's gut, the pain bringing him back to his fight. Wounded and sorely pressed, he quickly collapsed to his knees, the wet blood gushing from his stomach._
> 
> _He heard his uncle yell, knew the riders approached, felt himself being lifted onto a horse. Then the MacLeods were away, retreating from the fight, Duncan vainly trying to glimpse Ian among the dead. Ian, who had no family to rescue him. He only had Duncan, who left him behind. Bouncing along, he watched his kinsmen withdraw - knowing they would be followed home._

Duncan could feel the two Immortals from his car, imagining one to be a very scared Richie. He slammed the convertible's door, an unneeded announcement of his arrival. The Highlander didn't bother hiding his katana, this being a very desolate area. _Perfect for training. Better for fighting._

A quick check of the rental car already parked revealed no clue to the identity of the Immortal holding his friend. The car had been rented that morning from the airport, according to the paperwork in the glove compartment. It bothered him that whoever it was knew enough to guess Richie could be used as leverage against him. _Felicia? She tried it before, and she knows about this place. St. Cloud? It has a certain flair. Richie could have told him . . . Though not willingly._

Walking into the large building, seeing the duo standing together, his attention was drawn to Richie first. Gagged, terrified, obviously bound by the way he was struggling with his hands behind him, the young man was physically unhurt. The other Immortal had an arm around Richie's neck, a claymore glittering in the last light of day resting on the redhead's shoulder. Duncan had to look twice, not believing who held his student.

"Ian?..." was all he managed to utter. The dapperly dressed gentleman laughed, throwing Richie to the floor. The claymore blade dropped, again moving to Richie's neck. "You're...alive..." Duncan stammered.

"Last time I checked." The voice was more clipped, English. The Scottish accent was totally buried under other lives. With disdain, Ian slung his sword on his shoulder, shuffling away from Richie without a concern.

"It can't be. I saw you die," Duncan said, lost somewhere between now and then. _It's got to be a trick._

The other chuckled. "As I you. Well, fatally wounded. Really, Duncan, I'd thought you would have learned something by now." A half turn, and he started walking back to the bound Immortal on the floor. "Shall I tell you something...personal? So you have no doubts, of course." He stopped, right next Richie, turning to grin at the Highlander. "Say, how you left me behind that day?" Savagely, he kicked out, sending his boot into Richie's gut. "Or when you drunkenly blurted out details of my sex life?" Another kick, eliciting a moan from the redhead. "How `bout Colleen..." He had drawn his foot back a third time when Duncan yelled.

"STOP!"

The other complied, grinning wider. "I take it you believe me?"

Duncan frowned. "The Ian I knew wouldn't do this," he said, unsure at what to believe.

"People change," Ian answered. "Especially after four hundred years." He spared the Immortal below him a glance. "I see some things stay the same. Still picking up strays?"

That drew a flash of anger. "Leave Richie out of this. He's innocent," Duncan ordered.

Ian calmly stepped over the prone body, taking the few steps needed to close with the Highlander. "Nobody connected with you is ever innocent. You exude your foibles everywhere you go." With contempt, he pivoted the claymore until it rested threateningly on Duncan shoulder.

With a _clang_ , Duncan angrily knocked it to the side with his katana. "What happened to you, Ian?"

"You really want to know?" the other asked, eyes wide with madness. Duncan nodded slowly, never daring to blink. That seemed to please Ian. "They found me, Duncan. Breathing," he said. Without preamble he turned, looking away. Into the past. "I guess they thought it would be fitting to use me like the cattle we had stolen. I dragged their plows, crushed their grain, pulled their carts. They planned to work me to death. They succeeded, several times. I kept praying you'd come, but... " Ian faced Duncan again, face alive with hate. "You never did."

"I didn't know," Duncan said, dropping his gaze from the fiery stare.

"You never even looked, now didja?" Ian sarcastically asked. "I saw you once, up a hill, running behind Connor," he continued, his voice low. "But after twenty years, I gave up hope. Then I just tried to survive. I was a demon to them, Duncan. They tried to kill me. Burning, hanging, burying. They didn't waste food on me, barely gave me enough to survive. And work. But one day, they got careless...I killed them all."

Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. All that time he trained with Connor, he never guessed. "How long?" he finally asked in the silence.

"Seventy years," came the answer, driving like a knife into Duncan's heart. "I didn't find you for a century after that," Ian continued, the words coming quicker. "I've watched every fight you've had, learned every move as you perfected it. I've spent all my time imitating you."

The pieces clicked. "To take my head," Duncan volunteered.

Ian beamed. "Dinna' you learn back then I was no' like the others, Duncan, me lad?" he quipped, with a thick Scottish brogue. He laughed, continuing in his normal voice. "My revenge will not be so swift." He pivoted, pointing his claymore at Richie's prone form. "I plan to take that one's head. If I succeed, you go through what's left of your life knowing he died because of your failure. If you stop me . . . Well, I've told him enough that he'll want to know the whole story. How you treat your friends. He strikes me as the unforgiving type, don't you think?" Like some cardboard villain, Ian laughed after playing his last card.

Duncan boiled it down to two choices. _Kill Ian, or watch him kill Richie._ He looked up, finally meeting Ian's stare. "I won't fight you, Ian. There's so much..."

"Spare me," the other said, turning his back to the Highlander, walking toward Richie. Once there, he raised his claymore, both hands on the hilt. With a yell, he swung down at the redhead's exposed neck.

***CLANGGGGG***

Duncan could barely believe his sword would stop the blow. If fact, the force of it drove the point of his katana an inch into the cement. Ian's gaze moved up the blade and arm to Duncan's face, smiling. "I said to leave him out of it," Duncan quietly menaced. Ian just laughed, freeing a hand, elbowing Duncan in the face. With a start, the Highlander fell back, overjoyed when Ian turned away from Richie.

One could hardly call it a fair fight. Everything Duncan tried, Ian could counter. It didn't help that neither one really wanted to kill the other. Each, for his own reasons, wanted to disarm, possibly disable, the other. But still Ian held the upper hand. Too many cuts on Duncan's left arm weakened it, leaving him only one arm to wield his sword. Ian proved the faster as well, several of Duncan's swings slicing empty air. One even cut through a metal pipe, one of the few working parts of the heating system. But none found their mark. Steam poured from the angled cut, shooting skyward like a fountain. The white mist settled to the floor, hiding the cement, even Richie's unmoving form.

Duncan knew he was out-matched. He tried playing possum, but Ian only slowly walked back to Richie, again threatening the younger Immortal. Duncan struggled to stand, charging Ian and barreling both of them over the prone shape. It was an effort for Duncan to get up a second time, the sinking feeling he was going to lose this battle settling in his stomach. But the price for this loss wasn't his head. He'd lose the last remains of his tattered family. And always know Ian could come for his Quickening at any time.

With a surge of determination, Duncan tried one final move, easily blocked and countered. His katana slipped from his grasp, his palm sweaty from the fight and the steam. With a snarl, Ian kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor, defenseless. This time he couldn't get up. His arms failed, his legs unsteady.

Ian looked down, eyes alight with disdain. He turned in triumph, walking once more to Richie. "Ian..." Duncan feebly called. His boyhood friend came back, almost concerned. "Please, Ian..." Duncan gasped. "He's done nothing... Let him live. Torment me if you wish... He's only a boy..." The effort proved to much, the Highlander's lungs hurting with each syllable.

Leaning over, Ian chuckled. "He's close to you. That's enough for me. Shall I tell him goodbye for you?" Again the laugh. Through the pain, Duncan drew what remained of his strength. With surprising speed, he drew his legs to his chest, planting his boots on Ian, and pushed with all his might. A look of surprise appeared as Ian flew back, not high, not fast. But enough to propel him backwards, the cut pipe suddenly sprouting from his chest as he was impaled on the steam-belching stake. Only the pillar behind him stopped his flight, the shock still on his face.

It took a moment for Duncan to get to his feet, the agony overwhelming. As he stumbled to Ian, he saw the rivers of blood coursing down his front, pooling at his feet. A small flow appeared from his mouth, dripping off his chin. "Please," Duncan begged, "don't make me choose."

Ian coughed, sending a glob of blood down his skin. "Me or him, Du..." Another cough, more blood appearing from his nose. It was getting harder to hear him over the noise of the steam.

"But, you're my friend..." Duncan began, trying to wipe away the red liquid from Ian's face, without success.

Ian weakly chuckled. "Your friend died that day. All I am is hate. Revenge." Miraculously, the blood stopped by itself, the cough not as deathly. "It took a long time for hope..." A breath. "...to die, for joy. Even love finally withered." The voice grew stronger. "Didn't it?"

"Stop this," Duncan implored. Before the Highlander's eyes, he watched Ian heal, knowing this would never end.

"Your pain is my life, Duncan MacLeod," Ian said, starting to pull himself off the pipe. "It's all I have left."

Part of Duncan's mind was screaming at the necessity the other part performed. In years to come, he could not recall this moment, watching his sword neatly slice through flesh, bone, concrete. Watching the head of a ghost tip, fall to the floor. Feeling the lightning as it coursed along the pipe, jumping to his body, flooding his soul. Hearing what had to be his scream of rage, of loss, echo in the warehouse. Knowing what he had just done.

It was dark, and quiet, as Richie made his way across the warehouse, dropping the length of rope to the floor. He followed the slight noise, zeroing in on the figure still crouched on the ground. He gently knelt, placing a hand on the quivering shoulder.

"Come on, Mac. Let's go home," the redhead said.

The Highlander shook his head, sending his loose hair flying. "N... No," was all he replied. His body still shivered, his arms crossed, as if holding in his chest. He never looked up, even as Richie stood, making his way to the convertible. He returned, unfolding a blanket kept for emergencies, draping it over Duncan's shoulders. The Highlander's hands clutched at the cloth, drawing it closer, enveloping himself in it.

A sigh. Richie leaned in, not wanting to speak louder than necessary. "I'll wait at your place, my friend. Don't be too long...." And he was gone, softly padding away, starting the rental car and driving away. Leaving Duncan with the oh-so-vivid memories. And the grief.

* * *

The warrior stood beside the ruins, next to the lump of weed-covered earth. The only marker this grave had ever borne was Ian's claymore, rusted away to almost nothing. It had taken the Clan's historian weeks to find this place. The wind whispered around the crumbling tower, weaving in and out of the rocks, carrying the sound of boys playing, long ago. In the distance, the thunder rumbled, the dark clouds visible on the horizon.

"You were wrong, Ian. After the hate is gone, you're still in here. What do I do with the past, Ian? When am I free from it? When do the memories go away?"

The Highlander walked away as the discordant weather approached, leaving the eternal question lingering over the grave, like a specter. The storm arrived, the pounding rain soaking the grave, the lightning igniting the dark sky. And over the patter of raindrops, and the roar of thunder, the wail of unearthly bagpipes softly wafted through the ruins, finally fading into silence.


End file.
